


Voices on the Plane

by Entwife_Incognito



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: F/M, First Time Together, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Romance, Sexy Times, relationship angst, smutty smut smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 19:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8765446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entwife_Incognito/pseuds/Entwife_Incognito
Summary: An experiment in Lisbon's point of view as she leaves the Blue Bird, hears Jane's confession on the plane and returns to him at the TSA office. Further activities :) I'm very curious about the process of Lisbon's decision-making that night. A bit bumpy, as most thinking is. Two chapters. Rating is for language and adult sexual situations. Disclaimer: I own nothing about The Mentalist. Thanks to austinpd1 on Tumblr for making the cover for this story.First posted at FFnet on September 5, 2014. Now here, with refining edits.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Experimenting with first person voice here, Lisbon's POV, and there's several types of dialogue going on. Hope it's not too confusing.

Everything is a beautiful lie! He tricks me! Makes a fool of me again.  


The innocent experience feels so good to remember. I enjoy the seduction. I'm open to it. The setting. Beautiful dresses. A lavish meal. Jane's utter charm, his vibrating infatuation. Almost certainly a night of sex, to answer all those questions. The answers he also wants. Casual sex. A solid part of my repertoire. No conflict at all with the souvenir Blue Bird bathrobe tucked in my suitcase for Marcus.  


What piece of pussy-ass candyland am I living in? This is no princess fairy tale where maybe I could be his.  


I want to so much. This truth is a rending interruption. That ship has sailed. Well . . . it's flying to D.C.  


Jane has cut my heart out for the last time. He's a sociopath. He doesn't even see me! I'm an object, to manipulate as he pleases. He devastates what remains of my heart.  


What if his seduction had worked? My life as Patrick Jane's object. Would I have figured it out? No matter. I don't have to, now.  


Fuck off, you twisted bastard! I wish I could scream it down the hallways so loud you couldn't hide from it! I came close enough.  


I'm out of here. Don't even close the cab door until I'm thumbing Marcus. I'll show Jane. I can have a great life without him. Someone wants me. Fuck Patrick Jane!  


I've done the wrong thing. I know it as soon as I say yes. Absolute horror at the assent I give through the phone. No elation for my impending union with Marcus, my engagement. I freeze in a shock of horror, my phone falling away as Marcus jabbers . . . something. And it is too late. But it's the only way I can leave Jane. Marcus is my hope for a future I understand.  


I'm weak. Confused. Stubborn. Determined. I pull it together, to do what I must.  


Why do I keep looking over my shoulder? Looking for him? For a rescue? Yes. Bad-ass me needs a rescue. If not by Jane, at least from Marcus. This is the only way I know to save myself.  


By the time I take my seat, I accept my fate. I can do this.  


Is that . . .? No, no, no, no, no.  


Bastard! You bastard! What are you doing here?  


He's limping.  


"I don't want to see you. Go away." I don't care what you have to say.  


You haven't seen bitch until now. No nice inside this bitch. Fuck with me? I'll freeze your fat balls so brittle, they'll break off, fall out your pants leg and roll down the aisle when they haul you off this plane, jackass.  


Here comes more bullshit.  


What? 'Lie, trick? To avoid the truth of how you feel?' What are you trying to pull, agreeing with me?  


'Terrified of getting close . . . for obvious reasons.' It took a lot for him to say that. It makes me sad to think of what he's been through.  


So that's been it all along? That's all? You're afraid to get close to me, terrified to lose me. All that talk about wanting me to be happy. You were afraid. Unable to conquer it.  


I can't look away while he bares his soul to me.  


Please don't, Jane. I've been though enough with you.  


I'm falling for drivel that must be true. Look at his face.  


"I can't imagine waking up, knowing I won't see you." Oh, me too, me too. What will I do without you?  


Is this a con?  


My heart is lead. I want to hold you. No, no, no, not this again. Please stop, Jane, I can't take it.  


You don't know what I've done. What I've told Marcus.  


"The truth is, I love you." I can't take my eyes from him. He's sad, talking from deep in his heart, tears covering his cheeks and raining from his jaw. It hurts. The words I've wanted to hear.  


I want you. I don't want to cry but I've been so sad and hurt. I've loved you beyond hope, until I gave up, Jane, and now you tell me you love me?  


Beet red. He has to work to breathe again. Shakes his hands to soothe himself, delay the demands of his body. It wants oxygen. But the profound relief of speaking at last and the resulting trough of fear takes his breath away and he's slow to recover it.  


God, it's real. You're telling the truth.  


Everything is messed up. Nothing makes sense. I've already decided. I can't turn back now.  


I want to. Why don't I?  


He can't . . . I can't . . . It's too late. "It's too late. Jane, it's too late."  


Crushed. I've crushed you.  


He has to look away from me, pretend it's all right, whatever I want. But I watch him curl in pain. His face is a puffy wreck of misery.  


He's telling the truth. I know he is.  


He's in a spiral of emotion and pain. Stark honesty. Confession. Loss, hopelessness, inability to cope. Confession of love. Corrosive sense of rejection. Even Jane couldn't lie through this storm.  


He makes a bravado of acceptance, straightens right away and opens both hands to me. You're giving me a gift.  


"And you deserve to hear it."  


The gift of your confession. Your love. The truth. Over and over, the truth. I know.  


They're coming for you, you beautiful idiot, my fallen angel. Forcing your way onto a plane. It's worth the price to you.  


Surrenders immediately. He's yelling as they take him away.  


"I love you, Teresa, and it makes me happy to be able to say that to you." His voice is breaking. He'll never see me again.  


I'll never see you again.  


Everybody's looking at us. He tells them all he loves me, 'that woman in 12B.' He tells them to take care of me.  


Because you can't take care of me now, when you need to the most.  


Everybody's looking at me. I'm embarrassed for the scene we made. But they're not. They're moved. And sad for us. I think we've broken the heart of the guy next to me. I can tell he wants to cry.  


I apologize for the disruption and look around. A herd of dewy-eyed deer has taken all the passenger seats.  


A frilly little girl approaches and kicks the shit out of the side of my seat with her hefty, metal-reinforced, orthopedic brown leather high-top.  


An elderly woman three seats up is crying and her slightly deaf husband hovers, patting her and saying, "Don't worry, Alice. If it's true love, she'll follow him."  


I feel like a skunk at a garden party. And it's my party.  


Do I believe Jane's display?  


Yes. It is real. And if it isn't, if he can fake it this good for me in a relationship . . . but it isn't faked. I know it isn't.  


Marcus is . . . Marcus is . . . an ambiguity, equivocal. He can't offer what really feeds me. This . . . love. This searing, crippling love that makes Jane tear his heart out on a plane full of people. Because he has to. And it doesn't matter how anymore.  


Son of a bitch is going to be in jail again. For Christ's sake. He'll get lost in there without me covering him. I should let him rot.  


I have to go. Where the love is, where it's always been. It's not even an issue with Marcus. A phone call to accept a proposal? A phone call to end it will do.  


Standing up, carry-on in hand. All the deer turn their heads to me in choreographed motion. It's a little creepy. Since when do deer cry? I try to smile, but my mouth wiggles and flops uselessly. I join the deer in tears and walk down the aisle to exit the plane. The attendant opens the door.  


No. They did NOT just applaud me! Stupid deer.  


Walking across the tarmac, it hits me. Jesus. I'm going to be fucking Patrick Jane. As much as I can. I know he won't hold back. I know even this hidden part of him.  


My heart does that benign flip-flop thing that makes me think it will probably kill me this time.  


My mouth is watering and I hope the other gusher won't show through my jeans.  


I don't want to walk anymore.  


I have to get him out of jail.  


The boarding attendant greets me when I enter the terminal. Sappy smile and tears. They must have messaged her. She points. "They took him to the TSA office, honey."  


TSA guy's an asshole. Won't let me in to see Jane. Won't even tell him I'm here. Has to investigate Patrick Jane's affiliations and criminal record and blah blah. Well, he'll be in there awhile for sure, then.  


I tell TSA someone will be by from the FBI to claim Jane. Please tell them I'll be at the nearest java hut. He shrugs.  


I need some coffee and a brain cell or two. I text Marcus I won't be on the flight. That is all.  


The coffee seems not to have found a target. Staring into space when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Abbott. It's light outside.  


I've been a blank since I sat down, but my cup's empty. What's to think about? I know I'm doing the right thing. The right thing is a life of profound screaming sex alternating with corrosive meltdown irritation. No doubt about it. Because it's all attached with the right sap. Yes. Love. So be it.  


This better not have been a fucking Jane play. I stop in the bathroom to tidy my hair and face.  


Abbott fixes it for me to go in.  


What's the story behind the limp? Jane's sprawled at the table, ankle wrapped. Lost in thought, tapping one of those long, graceful index fingers on his bottom lip. He looks like a puffer fish on the tail end of a bender.  


I don't think he believes his eyes when I sit down, but he looks at me, almost unblinking. I use everything he taught me about not being read.  


No, Jane. I'm not a gooey puddle of love right now. I want to see if you're full of shit.  


I'm so still and contained he's got to wonder if he's about to be snake bit.  


Why do I bubble like champagne when he fucks with me and makes jokes about pickles? So much for not being read. It relaxes us both. I'm still Lisbon and he's still Jane. I feel happy. But I return to still.  


He may be fiddle-farting around, but we both know I'm in control here.  


Yeah, Jane. Quit fucking around and tell me if you meant what you said on the plane.  


"Yes. I meant what I said, every word of it."  


Then say it again. I want to hear it straight.  


Oh my god, you're going to kiss me!  


His face is near mine when I close my eyes. He moves so slow, I have to peek to be sure whether he stood to come over the table for me or just to stretch his legs. His lips are soft and they flutter a little, seeking the perfect place to land. His mouth is large, engulfing. I use my tongue to pull the meat of his fleshy upper lip into my mouth.  


Several seconds later, I'm glad I was seated for his restatement. What was happening inside that kiss makes me blush even now. We're ready.  


TSA has his panties in a wad. Abbot's opening the door, signaling for me to come out. He'll probably have to get the FBI Director, the Secretary of Intelligence and half the President's cabinet in order to spring Jane. But he will.  


Jane looks into my eyes before I go and we're already doing things to each other. There's a lot to work out, but we're settled on together. We're settled on love.  


He didn't actually say it again. But I haven't actually said it at all. I'm sure it will come out in a big way from both of us, later.  


"I'm going to get a hamburger at the restaurant down the way."  


Abbott nods.  


I poke my chin at Jane. "They feed you anything in there?"  


He pulls a pack of peanuts from his pocket and rattles it.  


"Well, hurry up and I'll buy you some eggs and toast. And a nice cup of hot tea."  


He winks, a smile so big and joyous he looks like a boy. A beautiful, golden-haired, curly-headed boy. Mine. I love you.  


His voice cracks, raspy. "I'll be there."  


While I wait for my burger and fries, I phone Marcus. He whines okay and reacts to my take-back like he lost a bet on football.  


They make a good burger here.  


I order Jane's breakfast and tell the waitress to hold it until I say the word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idan asked for a chapter on the consummation. I love consummations.

It hasn't been long. What's left of my French fries is not actually cold yet. Abbott must have had his ducks lined up.  


Jane's familiar form materializes at my side, stops. He kisses me on the cheek before I can look up, then blurs past me and takes a seat across from me, in the booth. I guess he's still limping.  


I feel him grinning but I don't look up.  


I'm not through with you. Your ass could be in jail right now, waiting for its trip to the penitentiary.  


Tapping the table to the left of my plate. Lift my hand to catch the waitress and signal ready by pointing my finger up and making a tight circle in the air. She points straight at me, nods, winks and hustles off to put in the order. Excellent service here. She brings the tea things right away.  


I'm stalling. I don't know what to say or do. But Jane's peck on my cheek still feels warm. Shockingly new, and pleasant. I want to touch it, so I do. Feels like cheek.  


I look at him. Eyes clear as the sea. His face is frozen in suspense, not dread, so at least I haven't scared him. Just have his attention.  


We're supposed to be trying to get together, so I'm cutting you some slack.  


His gaze is calm but unsure, mouth gaping a little. He doesn't know what to say or do either. But he's knows I'm in charge.  


It'll take a miracle to get you out of this doghouse.  


Outflow from a nearby fan lifts a curl that is sprung free. He's settled into a fond smile now. Looks me over. Takes a little license with my bustline. When he returns to my eyes, his are little stars of happiness.  


Damn your beautiful face. It says you love me and I believe it. Why would you take on a life-long lie? 'Cause this is for life, Paddy.  


Patrick makes his tea. The eggs come out fast.  


"I didn't try to give them your recipe."  


"Oh, that's okay. They look great. Let's see how they did." He starts peppering.  


I point to my plate. "These French fries aren't really cold yet. You want them? Really good with eggs."  


His fork is poised in the air, half-smile on his face. "Uhhhhhhh . . ."  


Just making conversation here. They're potatoes. I wait.  


A happy little shrug. "Yeah. Put 'em on here." He taps the plate where.  


I brush them out with my fingers.  


His fingers splay when he moves the fries toward his eggs with his loosely held fork. Our fingers touch.  


I pull away naturally and lick mine, removing the salt and the white-hot phosphorus burns where he touched them.  


He looks at his own fingers and brushes the tips. Looks at me and starts in on his breakfast, popping a fry into his mouth and peppering the rest. He slips them under the fluff of eggs to warm and soak. Perfect process.  


My head is full of noise. It's good you're not trying to make idle conversation.  


Turnabout's fair. I take license with Jane's mouth and watch it operate with food. Opening wide to fill it generously, he keeps it firmly closed while he chews. His cheeks puff a bit like a little kid as his sealed lips move sensuously together under that perfect nose. His wet tongue is a marvel. He winks at me and cleans his lips zealously with that wide, flat muscle.  


Show off. Yeah, wind me up. But I know that's how you always eat. This is just my first time to really watch, and you're working the crowd. It's okay. I'm a believer.  


My coffee is dregs and cold. Jane notices and signals the waitress. I burn my lip and my eyes water at the first sip. Ah, just right! I can't help but smile over the sting and Jane is grinning at me.  


Stop that! I know you think that tells you something.  


I'm not sure why I'm thinking of sex now, but I wish Jane would finish his breakfast. My cheeks are getting hot.  


"I could use a shower and some sleep."  


Now he's pissing me off.  


Don't play nice with me. You think we're having a pajama party? Maybe we'll curl each other's hair and get out our Barbie sleeping bags?  


"That is . . . unless you have other ideas . . ."  


I know my eyes are coal black hell and the light in them is fire, and I turn them on him full blast. Don't fuck with me, Patrick. You'll regret it.  


"Oh." He smiles. His eyes go narrow and hot over the flame pink of his cheeks. "So that's how it is."  


"That's right."  


"I'm ready. Are you ready?"  


"You know I am." I'm gonna smoke you.  


"Airstream?"  


"No. Not my place either. Neutral."  


"No-Tell Mo-tel it is. I know a good place."  


"You pick. You pay."  


"Of course. My little butterfly."  


We both break out laughing at that, our faces bright as Valentine tulips. He got me on that one. It sort of tickles.  


He stands. Takes my hand and wraps it into his arm, lays his own warm hand on mine. Bends and takes a quick kiss. Prepared, I hold him a nanosecond with a light suckle. There's a quiet groan in his "mmmmm."  


My jeans will never dry.  


We take a cab to the Four Seasons on Biscayne Bay. The room is opulent. Jane's style is always impeccable, even when he bends to urgency and circumstance.  


I close the door, lean against it with my hands behind my back, then slowly lift one and flip the interior latch. I'm looking at him like he's chocolate mousse. And he looks at me like I'm the fluffiest scrambled eggs he ever saw. No one makes a move.  


"I have to get something out of the way."  


Alert. He's waiting.  


"I love you." If you say, 'That's lucky,' you'll be picking your teeth off the floor.  


He has me in his arms in one step, hugging me so close I have to put my arms around him to stay up. The force of his breath as he speaks into my ear nearly blows out the drum. "You don't know how long I've dreamed of those words! I love you, Teresa Lisbon, I love you."  


When he straightens, I jump, clinging to his shoulders and wrapping my legs around his waist, a perch to kiss him face-on. "I love you, you silky bastard. I love every inch of you."  


He smiles and nips my ear lobe.  


And I want you stuffed into my body, fast!  


I don't want to tear his clothes off. I want him to feel it, not be glad he survived a hurricane. So, while I'm hanging on his hips with his hands on my ass, I start to unbutton his shirt. My nose wrinkles when I smell the damp of my jeans.  


He takes a long breath through his nose and his face is soft pleasure. "The scent of my woman, wanting me. That'll be even better when your jeans and panties aren't in the way."  


Patrick Jane is a dog and it thrills me. I kiss my way from his jaw to his ear and whisper, "I like a dog in my man."  


He huffs and whines, marks my neck while I hold it bare to him. Panting, he lingers there, rooting at my jawline, rubbing his face on me as he tries to talk. "Ohhhhh, Teresa . . . Teresa . . . so passionate . . . I knew you would be. Are you adventurous, too?"  


Highlights of my sexual life flash through my mind before I can divert them. They make me too warm and a bit self-conscious.  


Jane laughs and peppers me with wet kisses.  


"If it doesn't hurt too much . . ." In the right mood, I'm up for almost anything. I bet he could drive my body to want satisfaction any way he'd give it.  


When he sits on the bed with me straddling his lap, he unbuttons my blouse and I shirk it off my shoulders. I let him have all the time he wants to study me in my bra. The heated amazement in his face tells me how moved he is by the view. If you cry, I'm going to bite your chin til it bleeds.  


I don't know if he cries or not. When he starts handling me, there's nothing else but what he's doing to my body. A rush of lust turns me feral.  


He has me out of my bra, his mouth doing unknown things to my boobs as I squash them and push them into his face. I'm the one crying. I can't get my boobs into his mouth fast enough. I can't get a whole one in there! His tongue is taking me from fantasy to delirium.  


He scratches the crotch of my jeans to distract me. I'm moaning in a stress cry as he kisses the salt on my cheeks and rubs over my jeans, murmuring something I can't concentrate on until I hear, "baby."  


It doesn't offend me. Now I'm listening to him.  


"Let's get you out of these pants, baby. I don't want to make you wait. I've got what you want and I'm going to give it to you." He's gone feral, too, his breath gasping, eyes nearly shut in his soft pink face as he kisses and tastes my shoulders. Those long fingers travel up and down my back, pressing me to his lips.  


His words drop my baseline so low, my entire body bumps and hums the broadcast from my moaning core.  


"I want to see you." Show me that fat thing I feel in your pants! Take it out! Make it stand up!  


"Take it out. It's yours. I want to see your hands on me."  


The way he talks. I get contracting chills up the muscles in my neck. They make my whole body curl. I don't tear into his pants, but I don't tarry either. Then, he rolls to his side, carrying me along, and pushes his pants down on that side. He pauses to kiss me and we really get into it, but I make him roll to the other side to take his pants completely down.  


When he sits back up, his big, beautiful cock is standing between his legs, between my lap and his. It's cream and pink, my favorite color in cocks. The head is fat and so are the pretty balls that stay close to his body. He's going to feel so good.  


I touch and pet everything until he writhes and moans, his head thrown back. My hands know his male flesh now, every form and curve. He feels wonderful.  


I want my pants off. No! Don't touch my clothes. I don't want to play. I just want out of them!  


I strip out of everything and move to seat myself on his legs again, but his hand is splayed wide on my stomach, stopping me as he stares between my legs, touches the soft hair, tests the plump, slides fingers between my lips and looks at them glisten wet.  


If you taste me, I'm yours. His fingers go into his mouth and I scoot up his lap. We're both sampling the air between us, our mingled scents on our naked skins. He smells as strong as me. Together we make a mist of sex funk that won't wait.  


When he puts his arms around me to lie me on the bed, he gets a surprise. A thumb at his sternum, pushing. Cop move. He obeys.  


His butt is at the edge of the bed when he lies down, feet on the floor, looking at me.  


"I want to fuck you, Jane. Is that okay with you?" This is your last warning.  


"Patrick. Call me Patrick. Oh god, yes. I've held back ten orgasms tonight just waiting for you."  


"Well, don't do me anymore favors, okay, Patrick?" I think he groans when I use his name. Or maybe it's because I'm telling him to come.  


"Wait. Wait. Sit on me nice and slow. I want to see us. I want to see your clitoris. I want to touch it."  


I like the way he thinks. Both of us watch the slow stuff, hardly believing this could happen. I look at him, wide-eyed, You're fucking me! He's still focused on the sight of himself buried in my soft, hot flesh, a sheen of perspiration breaking over his brow and upper lip.  


I think he's going to pop me open, he fills me so tight. That fat head is a piston! My clit is pushed to the open air.  


My knees are braced on the top edge of the mattress. Patrick's huge hands and long fingers reach for me. Land on my thighs, slide to my impaled flesh.  


"Ooohhhh, it's beautiful!" When he puts a thumb on me, it makes me rock my hips.  


"So plump and firm." He's getting to know my clit, stroking it softly with his thumbs until I'm panting and can't play nice anymore.  


I'm vigorous and he puts both hands on my hips to steady us, going back to my clit as often as he can. But he doesn't interfere with my movement. Good thing. My teeth are ready for him.  


"You're perfect! You're going to make me come . . . Hard!" His voice is a loud growl on the last word and he starts grinding into me.  


Holy God! He's hitting someplace deep in there that makes my spine curl and my hips plow into it. Everything I am concentrates on making him squash that fat head into that spot. I want everything you've got!  


He watches my boobs bounce until his eyes roll up and he starts grunting. It's beautiful, coming from his fleshy lips.  


I don't recognize the sounds I'm making. Squeaks, desperate squeaks. Or, is that him? I don't know. I don't care. I know Patrick is in me, but where we're joined is . . . I don't feel the boundaries of our separate flesh anymore. There's only that place inside and it's spreading everywhere as we ride. I let it fill me and start to drift.  


My voice is frantic and low as I curl to him. He lifts his thighs to keep the angle of my hips where it belongs and brings his face toward me. My lips touch his ear. "I love you, Patrick. I love you, my angel. You're making me come."  


I want to hear you scream for me when you come.  


He does. He screams my name, twisting it from his throat like pain. He takes control of my hips then, forcing them tight to his body as he shoots over and over. He's still rubbing that spot when my nervous system scrambles and I scream high, wavering as he continues to pump and my muscles nearly strangle his dick. He grunts and smiles at every attempt.  


When it's over, we're both sputtering and whimpering, curled tight together where we dragged ourselves onto the bed. We can't stop saying, 'I love you.' Every tear is right because they just sort of spill out, like any love juice.  


I'm lying in the cradle of his arm, looking at his face. Patrick traces a fingertip down the center of my chest to my belly. He makes one big circle that circumscribes both our bellies and our sexual flesh, saying slowly, contemplatively, "This . . . is . . . a beautiful thing."  


Looking into his lazy green eyes, I caress his cheek and jaw. "Yes."  


I smile at him, then break into a grin when I realize, "Our first sex is make-up sex!"  


"No wonder it's so strong." He throws his head back and laughs, showing me a horseshoe of teeth. You are one beautiful, thrilling jackass, Patrick!  


When I nestle close, he rolls onto his back to make us more comfortable. There are a million things I could think about, but I only think about one.  


Profound, screaming sex. Frankly, I'm too mellow to be irritated by anything.  


But you knew that all along, didn't you . . . my love. My hand petting his curls, nearly my whole arm caresses his face, mine tilted up until he looks at me. "Patrick, I'm so glad you didn't let me fly away."

He returns my touch and my gaze, smoothing the hair over my temples. Before he kisses me he says, "Teresa, I'm so glad you came to get me."


End file.
